


Tell Me When It Hurts

by marquise_angelica



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Conspiracy Theories, Denial of Feelings, F/M, First Time, Half-Human, Past, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:00:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29246211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marquise_angelica/pseuds/marquise_angelica
Summary: One night may not seem enough, but sometimes it is quite enough.
Relationships: Nero's Mother/Vergil (Devil May Cry), Vergil (Devil May Cry)/Reader
Kudos: 27





	Tell Me When It Hurts

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Tell Me When It Hurts](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/755652) by Маркиза Анжелика. 



> Strongly recommend to listen to 'Flower Face - Tell Me When It Hurts' while reading.

She loved her red dress. The Order's patch was almost hidden on it, purple on terracotta scarlet; she felt almost free and so beautiful wearing it! From under the hoods dwellers stared after her everywhere, even if they had seen her before. The bright red attracted the eye, the only one in the city. For men - is an excuse to turn around, for women - is a reason to mock. After all, "why do you attract the eye if you are not looking for a meeting for one night?".

But the only one, a stranger one, did not pay attention at all.

"Why didn't you notice me then?" - she wanted to ask so badly, while his fingers went down the row of buttons, pushing them out of the slots, one after another.

Why didn't he look until she took off her hood, until she spoke?

However, the gods do not visit the earth often, so they don't have a habit of looking at custom people.

“Therefore, you have to do everything for him to stay with you,” wished the head of the Order, Sanctus. He said a lot more. He said that the visitor's name is Vergil, that he is the son of their deity, Sparda, that the Order had already tried to draw him, but Vergil refused. And he said that a woman, she, is their last hope for the prosperity of Fortuna. She is the last hope to keep some of Vergil's power in the city in a simple, well-known way. In a child itself.

“Just think of who you will become then. Think what an honor it is for you, child."

Everything was thought out, planned, painted in colors. And she agreed. She did not dare to refuse such an honor. Even more, she really wanted to touch someone like him. Come closer. Try to comprehend him...  
But no one explained to her what to do by touching him, here and now.

***

Her little apartment smells of old books. The dust from them swirls in the light of the moon. Her breath blows up tiny whirlwinds in its silvery rays, her cheeks are burning. She looks at him from under the hood cautiously, incredulous.

Vergil slowly raises his arms and lowers the hood like a veil, behind her.

"You..." he drops. There are frighteningly no words in his head, only images are here: her lips are rounded in a soundless exclamation, her eyes are closed, her cheeks and neck are blushed. And then, if you finally take off this tight dress...

He's getting hot. And before him, barely breathing, stands the only reason why he has not left Fortuna at sunset. Leaving cases unfinished seemed wrong to him.

She is also the case.

Let her not think otherwise. Just a case to be done. The thing he needs to try, the thing that self-esteem requires to conquer before he says goodbye to this place forever.

Will he remember this?

It's hard not to think about unfinished business. That is only why he is still here.

***

His eyes darken and his skin appears to take on a shade of blue. It is uneven, in the repeating stripes. Or is it a shimmering in her eyes because of the semi-darkness along her?

She doesn't want to turn on the light, and there is no need for that: the moon illuminates enough. But it also distorts colors. In its rays Vergil's cloak looks bright blue in a gray-pearl embroidery, gloves are leaden-like, and the face is as if a marble. Right like... her breath gets catched. A statue of Sparda comes to her mind. It is exactly the same: white and motionless, too harsh to be considered handsome, but inexpressibly magnificent in a moment of a frozen time...

And then Vergil blinks, and his face changes imperceptibly, reminding that he is different. He is alive, he exists.

Here and now.

His voice becomes deeper, lower, without losing an unforgettable sonority, though:

"I don't perceive why you need all of that..."

She can hardly restrain herself so as not to tension: she is in his hands, and he will instantly feel if the softness under his fingers suddenly decreases in responsiveness. He is cautious, like a wild cat, and will not allow a second chance to approach.

“I need you,” she breathes, hoping that he will take the tremor in her voice for understandable excitement.

Her own voice seems inappropriately thin. It tickles in the nose, tears ripen in the eyes. She really wants to throw herself on his neck and hug him tightly, to confess everything, relying on his mercy... But he keeps her slightly away from him, almost on weight. Hence, he does not trust her. And how right he is.

“Sorry,” she involuntarily drops out loud.

"You're welcome", he answers just as quietly, and from the vibration in his tone she compresses her lips: her lower abdomen suddenly aches pleasantly.

He runs his fingers through the hair on the back of her head and pulls it back. She obeys. She closes her eyes, exhales slowly. And his hot exhale falls on her neck, where the pulse beats. It is followed by an inhale, which seems to be frost.

She remembers: they say demons like human blood.

Her pulse echoes through the body. Her blood is as if it boiled, so hot it feels inside.

Vergil leans over her, forcing her to arch, his warmth touching her skin again. And when she is ready to open her eyes and make sure that she is not hallucinating, his lips touch her ones.

She sighs in amazement and embraces his neck.

He pulls the opened dress off her shoulders. She gets stuck with its sleeves and she becomes shackled. The dress seems as heavy as a stone. She seems to be thrown into the water: there is a critical lack of air. "Sorry, now I'll fix that", she whispers, not knowing why to say that aloud, and fights with tight sleeves, forgetting about buttons, while Vergil holds her by the lower back. He finds her lips again - and this time the kiss lasts longer than the one beat of the heart.

It seems to her that the room is too quiet, that there is nothing to drown their breathing and that they will certainly be heard from the street. At the thought, she blushes more, blush spreads down and reaches the cheeks, neck and chest. But she cannot say a word: she is too busy. In all senses. She barely has enough consciousness even to purposefully twist her hands out of the damned dress, while the kiss becomes somehow completely indecent. But otherwise, intuitively it feels like everything is right. After all, this is what helps her to finally kick off the dress and kick it to the side. Her hands should be free. They should have his hair in them. But at first…

Her hands slide over his shoulders, pulling back the collar of his opened coat.

Vergil steps back sharply. She opens her eyes and watches as he, with an imperturbable face, but the ruby-ruddy one at the same time, takes off his coat and carefully, mockingly slowly puts it on a chair by the table. On top he lays the katana: before that she laid across the seat. A neckerchief falls next. One glove. Another one...

Sparda, how cute your child blushes, trying to keep indifference!

She can't stand it, strides towards Vergil, puts her hands on his vest and pulls the zipper down.

Vergil catches her hands, squeezes her wrists. He bends down, paralyzing her with an unblinking, intent gaze... And instead of any words he reaches for her neck. He kisses - but there comes biting after that. Then he does the same in the shoulder girdle, in the shoulder, and goes back almost in the throat. Bites and kisses. 

All together it doesn't hurt more than a prick of a rose thorn, but her knees become weak from that. Sometimes she wants to ask that the hands on her wrists tighten more, sometimes - that they have to let her go.

“Vergil…” she exhales, twitching her fingers, unable to speak loud. All she is able to do is just to look at him.

He lets her go and she sags to the floor, kneels at his feet, puts her hands in front of her.

She straightens her back and looks up at him from below. He seems taller than he is, more severe, more fearful; she wants to confess everything right now. She licks her dry lips; there is the trace of a kiss on them. Bloodless teeth marks burn on her neck. The heart seems to sink in the throat.

Vergil takes off his vest and her thoughts lose cohesion again.

He's not even young - he's immature. His figure is elongated. The limbs, especially the legs, are teenage-like long. But it is difficult to call him thin: the outlines of the muscles round out the angular transitions in the joints. The chest and stomach are embossed, strong, and you want to hide behind his shoulders. If he let it be, of course.

He looks down and holds out his hand to her. She puts her arm in his one, jerkily rises - and she finds herself pressed to his chest. A quiet chuckle is heard in her ear; his fingers touch her back between the shoulder blades. He unfastens a couple of hooks in a second. The pressure of the straps on the shoulders weakens at once.

She pulls back and, throwing them off, covers her chest with her hand.

It may be just a lucky glimpse of the moon, but his rich blue eyes seem to glow. For some reason, she becomes badly scared, and, fleeing his piercing gaze, she stands on her toes and pulls him by the neck to her. Kisses him - on the neck, chin; finally, on the lips. This time, Vergil does not try to control her, as before. But he hugs her behind and takes a step, literally knocking her down.

Oh!

The bed frame hits her knees.

Was it close as that all this time?

There is no time to think about it: a wide palm rests on the bed next to her shoulder.

Vergil leans from above, and for the first time in the evening a smile appears on his lips. But she is so unusual that it becomes scary: what, what is it? Why did he smile?

“Why…” she tries to whisper, but chokes on air: the other hand of him, with fingers spreaded, slides along her neck, collarbones, touches her chest with nails. Down, down more - ribs, belly, thigh... Fingers go down a little more down and back. They touch one to another. Their pressure is almost painful.

Vergil is still smiling, but as if not to her, but somewhere in himself; his cheekbones and cheeks are reddish, the stubborn lips are more reddened than usual. Breathing is silent, but frequent. Eyes... the gaze does not stay long in one place.

It dawns on her: Vergil and she is about the same age. He's younger than he tries to appear.

“You blush so sweetly,” she sheds, barely knowing what she’s saying. " And you can smile..."

Vergil immediately averts his eyes, as if awakened, and pulls away. She twitches after him, but this is not necessary: his shoes just had standed to the side, and his pants had lie down, gleaming with turquoise fabric. She sighs, looks away, and takes a moment to completely undress herself.

She glides her own hands over her moist, responsive skin. The palms are hot, and they only make her feel hotter. There is sweet languor in the body, which without words orders her to lie back on the bed and...  
She looks at his straight white back and shudders with another realization: all of this is real.

Vergil turns around - and his eyes do glow a little blue.

There is nowhere to retreat.

And how cannot you think about that unfinished case later?

And Vergil seems to be angry with her for calling him "sweet." Lips are compressed into stripes, eyes squint; he catches her wrists and pulls up to pinch her over her head. She groans. The other hand feels her body, but not affectionately, but as if studying the contours, texture... strong and weak points. But he does it slowly, and therefore it does not seem unpleasant. Quite the opposite.

He touches her side with his nails, and she giggles against her will, sucking in her stomach.

"So you will tickle me?", she laughs, but her voice trembles: it's from being nervous.

“Don't laugh at me,” he hisses in her ear, then rewarding her with the familiar bite.

She looks at the intersection of the ceiling and wall, behind his shoulder, and shudders: his shadow is much larger than it should be. And angular wings hunch over his shoulders.

She wants to say something else, but she doesn't have time. Vergil sighs noisily, burying his forehead against her neck, feeding his whole body towards her, and at the same moment, from a strange feeling in the lower abdomen, a hoarse, amazed moan escapes from her throat. As if she was holding a bouquet of roses in her hands, then pressed them tight... and the thorns breaking off scratched her palms. But the flowers are still in her hands, and they resiliently rest against the closed palms, resisting the pressure.

The movement repeats itself, and when perceived from start to finish, it seems silly and awkward. The lower abdomen sores a little, like an agitated scratch. This is strange and unusual.

She hardly spreads her fingers: it turns out, she clenched them into fists. Sweat is felt between phalanges, palms ache from injections with nails. But all other sensations go away when the new one returns. Stubborn and strong. She shudders, groans again, and Vergil becomes a little more careful. An elbow rests on the bed next to her head.

Vergil finds her eyes with his gaze and reaches for his lips with free fingers. At the touch, she obediently opens her mouth, breathing often through her rounded lips.

Short, ragged kisses make it difficult to focus. She crumples the sheets aimlessly, then hugs him, and sometimes even pulls his hair. He doesn't like it and shakes his head. Over and over again, as if in a bad stuffy dream. Silvery hair has long fallen over his eyes, tickling the bridge of the nose - to him and her, when he bends down again. Them try to hide the plaintive wrinkle between his eyebrows from her view. Vergil breathes intermittently, noisily, almost convulsively; at one point, it seems a sheet even burst under his fingers. But not her bones. They could, though...

Vergil pulls her closer and mutters something. His temples are glistening with sweat. The left hand hugs her hip and pulls it higher, forcing it to bend.

She opens her eyes and freezes, afraid to utter at least a sound. Inside, spreading upward like dawn, an electric tickling spreads through the body. And with every thrust it becomes sharper, clearer.

A bit more…

She sighs sharply, rests her heel on the bed; against her will she throws head back, spreads her arms, straightening them to the tips of his fingers, and arches in the back. The whole body strains to the limit. Almost painful, as if in a convulsion. It darkens in the eyes and the feeling of reality is lost.

A moment - and, gradually relaxing, she trembles violently.

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale - and she slowly opens her eyes.

The world after the darkening seems slightly different, but the things around are the same. The moon is still shining through the window, just slightly higher. There is a chair by the table, there is a blue coat on it, folded in half, decorated with embroidery, and a dangerous-black saya of the katana. Tsuba glistens with white gold. The yellow ribbons do not motion at all.

Vergil doesn't move too.

She embraces his heavy body laying above with her wet hands. Vergil, gradually calming down, breathes into her neck. His shoulder blades are tense, as if wings were really going to burst out of them. His skin is impossibly hot, and when he looks up it seems that the faded bluish stripes which were going into his hair, to the back of his head, disappear from his cheekbones.

“Thanks,” she says hoarsely, kissing his shoulder.

And it seems to make him wake up. Vergil gets up and looks out the window. Then he looks at her. She smiles, but he doesn't answer with the same. His face is uniformly pale again. No trace of emotions.

“You'd better forget about it,” and he reaches for his clothes. Calmly, quickly he regains its former appearance. The last is the hair. He sighs, taking his head back; shivers run down her spine again. But he doesn't look at her anymore.

When he leaves, it becomes sickly inside, even too much.

She crumples the hem of the red dress in her fist, for a moment wanting to tear it and throw it away. They prophesied! "For one night". Not more.

And, by the way, not less...

She covers her face with her hands and, with a sigh, falls backwards onto the still warm bed.


End file.
